


You'd Think This Was the Ending...

by frenchposie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Divorce, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fights, Forever, Insults, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Mycroft Whump, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Undercover, figment - Freeform, ghost - Freeform, i didn't mean it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-01 11:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13996995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchposie/pseuds/frenchposie
Summary: After Greg and Mycroft have a fight, Mycroft decides to go so deep undercover the rest of the world forgets about him.  Enlisting the help of his brother, will he be able to leave before Gregory finds out how permanent forever can be?





	1. The Truth is Far from Plain or How You Think it Should Appear

“Gregory,  please see reason.  Yes, you have the clearance to see that.  No, you were not supposed to,” Mycroft argued.

“What do you want me to say, Mycroft? That I understand?  The hell I do. You’re a monster.  An actual living monster.  Who needs Hollywood when I have you?” Gregory shouted at him, huffing with pure rage after.  There were things that he knew that his beloved was responsible for. Important things that would save and destroy lives.  He hadn’t gone into the man’s office looking for the information that he found, but he was unable to process what he had come across.

Mycroft stood in front of him, jaw shut, eyes ice cold.  Gregory’s last statements had cut him to the core.  “Do you feel threatened by my presence Gregory?” he asked, trying to apply logic to the rapidly devolving situation.

“I don’t know what you’re capable of.  Sherlock says you’re the most dangerous man I’ll ever meet.  I’m inclined to believe he’s correct.”

The emotional pain caused by those words filled Mycroft as though it were being poured into his body.  “Well then… as I cannot ask you to leave, I suppose I will take my own. I’ll be at the office.  Contact Anthea if you need anything,” he said, walking into his study to take his briefcase.   He and Gregory had married the year before, and while they would sometimes get into a row, it had never been like this before.

He was annoyed that Gregory just stood there and watched him as he put on his hat and coat and called for a car.  “You know, Gregory, you knew who I was and what I did before you married me.  I wonder why you would marry such a monster.”

“Apparently I have a predilection for those who are truly evil,” Gregory said back, his arms folded in front of him.  He glared at Mycroft as though he had done something to him or someone he loved. 

“Of course.  I am the villain in this tale,” he mumbled as he received the text that his car had arrived.  “Good-bye, Gregory,” he stated, with the full intention of never seeing his husband again.

\--

“Mycroft , are you certain?”  Lady Smallwood was incredulous.  They had been looking for just the right person to go into the field on an undercover mission that would erase them from society. 

“We know that I am capable of severing all ties from the country, except the ones necessary, ofcourse,” he said, leaning back.

“What of Detective Inspector Lestrade?” she asked.  “Certainly your husband would miss you.”

 _You’re a monster_.  The words echoed in his mind, along with the rest of the insults that Gregory had decided to hurl at him.

“No, I don’t believe he would.  It is far more likely that he would be pleased to see me go.”

She blinked at him in confusion, until a look of understanding crossed her face.  “Oh, I see,” she stated, knowingly.  “You had your first big fight.  What did he tell you?”

“I would rather not discuss it,” Mycroft said, closing himself off.

“When he calms down and he realizes that he hurt you, he’ll apologize.  You know that you’ll be as good as dead.  A living ghost – a figment, if you take this assignment.”

“Who would care, Alicia?” he all but barked at her. “My family? My _brother_?  My husband stated that he wants a divorce,” he said, knowing that he was paraphrasing, but the intent was there all the same.

She took pause at his words.  She recalled her first divorce, how shocked and hurt she had been.  Mycroft had come to love late in his life.  His parent seemed to be blind idiots, and his brother acted as though it was his sole intention to destroy Mycroft’s life a little more each day.  Gregory had brought something to Mycroft that she had never seen before.  It was as though pieces of his personality had been awakened by the silver haired DI.   “Oh, Mycroft.  I am so sorry.  At least stay long enough to see the divorce through.  That way, should you ever be able to return, you have means to live.”

He could not deny her logic.  So, with a nod of his head, they summoned in the lawyers to draw up the divorce decree.


	2. Who is Good and Who is Wicked all Depends on Where You Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, this is going to suck,” he grumbled as he texted Anthea.
> 
> ** Is Mycroft available? Greg**
> 
> Her response was almost instantaneous.
> 
> ** No. And he’s not likely to be for the foreseeable future. Do not contact me again. Anthea **
> 
> Greg pondered over that. For the foreseeable future? What the hell did that mean?

After Mycroft had left, Greg paced the house angrily.  He shouted at things, enraged that Mycroft had left in the middle of their argument.  Well…  he supposed it wasn’t so much of an argument as Greg yelling at Mycroft.  Certainly, he wasn’t supposed to see those documents.  He didn’t understand them… didn’t understand the reason for that level of horrific action. 

He threw himself onto the couch and picked up the beer that he had been drinking earlier that afternoon.   Slowly the rage subsided, and he wished that Mycroft was sitting in his chair, figuring out a way to explain the reasoning… or at least confirming that there was no other options to get the results that would benefit the greater good. 

He sighed and replayed the argument.  He realized that Mycroft had employed his ability to disassociate from the conversation, to deflect to a safer topic.  This was why the government employed him.  And, it infuriated Greg that it was used on him. 

Taking another drink of his beer, he realized that he didn’t give Mycroft any opportunity to explain.  He had called Mycroft a monster.   Guilt snaked into his thoughts, pulling apart his angry feelings.   His family had always treated him like an anomaly.  He was too fat, too skinny, too limited.  He wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t quick enough, didn’t have enough empathy, didn’t love Sherlock enough, didn’t understand people.  He had grown up, and part of the way to old, with the awareness that there was something wrong with him.  It had taken Greg _years_ to convince the man that he was not defective.  He wasn’t perfect: he had anxiety and a certain level of obsessive compulsive disorder.  He worked late, and often had about an hour between coming home from work and interacting with Gregory where he was in all ways the unfeeling monster that several world dignitaries believed him to be.

There was that word again… monster.

Gregory drew in a deep breath, and looked around.  This house was legally _theirs_ , but it was in almost all ways Mycroft’s.  He had such amazing taste.  It was probably part of the OCD.  Greg didn’t know.  He just took the man’s impeccable fashion and design style as a benefit.  It meant that he got to see his husband in suits that hugged his body perfectly.  Greg had always thought that there was something sexy about a man in a suit.  And he was lucky to have found one whose employ demanded that he wear the best of suits.  Every day, he got to know that a man whom he thought was incredibly sexy - in physical attributes, style, and intelligence, and know that the same man loved him, too. 

“Aw shite,” he swore, realizing that the deflection of Mycroft’s question was digging into the trust that they felt between each other.  It wasn’t about his job, it was about Mycroft himself.  Did Greg feel comfortable around Mycroft himself… He sighed.  His answer had meant ‘no.’  He may not have meant for it to mean ‘no, Mycroft.  I don’t trust you because I’m afraid of you because you’re a monster,’ but he knew for a fact that’s what Mycroft heard. 

And worse… he had brought _Sherlock_ into the argument.  Sherlock always said that Mycroft was the most dangerous man anyone could ever meet.  He knew that his husband had an incredibly important, high stress job that he couldn’t talk about no matter how hard the day was.  He knew that Mycroft assisted several other government agencies, when his particular skills were needed.  He knew that that Mycroft had gone through years of combat training, knew scores of languages.  He was a walking encyclopedia, and he was woefully underappreciated.  

Sitting himself up straight, he knew that he owed Mycroft an apology.  His words were uncalled for. He hit below the belt several times, and Mycroft had let him.  He withdrew, instead of dealing the withering blow that Greg was aware that he could have landed.   Realizing that he was beyond ‘in the wrong’ of their argument, if one could even call it that, he decided to wait until Mycroft came home.  The man had earned time to blow off some of his own steam.

Hours ticked by, and Greg knew that Mycroft had likely gone to work.  He had done the same after his wife decided that she wanted a divorce.  He let out a long sigh as he realized that he had equated Mycroft to his ex-wife.  He had been playing that part of the argument over and over, feeling like he was missing something.  He tried to view the insult through Mycroft’s perspective. 

Mycroft had spent years undoing the damage that Greg’s ex-wife had caused.  She had left him a broken shell of a man.  For the longest time, Greg thought that Mycroft was going to find someone else.  The younger man had been anxious about being in a relationship.  He had worked hard to fit Greg into a life that was enough for a department of Mycrofts.   But, what Greg loved the most was how he got to know the man behind the mask, so to speak.  He loved how Mycroft would chuckle at jokes that he didn’t find funny, but that Greg would.  He hated how the man would fuss whenever Gregory felt unwell, but he appreciated the gestures after he started feeling better.  He knew that Mycroft was allergic to fresh cut grass, but adored the smell of roses.  He knew that he loved musical theatre, and had a smooth tenor voice when he was tipsy enough to sing.  He knew that Mycroft loved music from the thirties and forties, and knew how to do the proper dances to them.  He was a treasure. 

Not a monster.

He sent a text to John, hoping that they had seen Mycroft.  Then he zipped a text off to Mycroft.

_** I was out of line.  You owe me no explanation.  Please allow me to apologize to you. I’m so sorry Mycroft. Greg **_

John was the one to text back.   They hadn’t seen Mycroft.

“Oh, this is going to suck,” he grumbled as he texted Anthea.

_** Is Mycroft available? Greg**_

Her response was almost instantaneous.

_** No.  And he’s not likely to be for the foreseeable future.  Do not contact me again. Anthea **_

Greg pondered over that.  For the foreseeable future? What the hell did that mean?   

\--

After the lawyers had drawn up the paperwork, he assured Lady Smallwood that he would be all right.  They had drawn up both survivor benefit paperwork and divorce papers.  The divorce papers would be only as a last resort.  There were other benefits to extend to Gregory if they stayed married.  He had Anthea call the maid and butler for his private loft in the city.  Often it stood empty, but over the next few months, he expected that it would become his primary residence. 

Forcing himself to take a break, he made an appointment with a massage therapist and let the man do his job.  Lying there, under the sheet, he wished that he could see Gregory getting a massage next to him.  The man needed to relax.  They both did.  He swallowed against the idea of going on a vacation.  The divorce papers would be delivered to Gregory within the hour. 

After the massage, he was able to find the strength to enlist the help of his brother.  Looking up at the window of 221B Baker Street, he sighed.  His plan would not work without Sherlock’s involvement.  He smiled when he thought about him enacting it against Eurus.  If they had eidetic memories, hers was nearly psychic.  He idly wondered if the concept of a psychic originally came from someone like her… he could see how it would be considered knowing the unknowable.   He wondered if it would drive her into herself again.  The country could only be so lucky.  Especially with their idiotic parents wanting to treat her like their little girl.

Knocking, he waited to deal with Mrs. Hudson’s rudeness.  Sherlock was the lovable one.  People flocked to him.  They believed him, even when he was wrong, _especially_ when he was wrong.  Mycroft was the one who dealt in realities. 

To his surprise, it was Sherlock, himself, who answered the door.

“What’s happened?” he asked, letting Mycroft inside.   To Sherlock, any fool could see that his brother was not all right.  John had told him that Greg was looking for Mycroft, and he could tell by the _relaxed_ posture of his brother that something was wrong.  Mycroft was never relaxed.

“I’m being put back into the field. I need your help tying up ends here.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose so high they disappeared behind his bangs.  His brother’s tone broached no argument.  This was not a joke.  His brother- the man who hated legwork – was going to do fieldwork.  Without another word, he stepped aside and let Mycroft inside. 

“What’s happened?” Sherlock asked, as the two men approached the window.  John was sitting in his chair, and the two of them ignored him completely.

“I cannot talk about it, but rest assured that I’m the only person who can extract the data,” Mycroft said, speaking comfortably to his brother.  There had been a few of these such conversations since the rest of the family decided that Mycroft was persona non grata.  A reality that had hurt his feelings when it happened, but now ensured that he would be able to make his exit without anyone knowing.

“How long should the mission take?” Sherlock asked.  His mission was only supposed to last six months; he wasn’t expected to survive longer.

Mycroft understood the question.  “Three months.  Maybe four.”

Fear rippled across Sherlock’s face.   His brother was not meant to survive.  “What do you need from me?”

“Ah yes,” Mycroft said, going into his briefcase.  “For you,” he said, handing a folder to John.  “And for you,” he said, handing a thicker document to Sherlock.  He stood silently, allowing the two men to look over the documents.

“This is a trust for Rosie…” John said. 

“Enough for any university in the world, if she so chooses,” Mycroft stated.  “I’ve had it set up since she was born.  You deserve a nice retirement, Dr. Watson.  Not one where you’re worried about how to make your daughter’s dreams come true.”

John blinked at him confused.  “I never…”

“I didn’t want you to,” Mycroft cut him off.  “Should I survive, you’ll know about the trust.  It’s always been in your name.  Nothing is contingent on my success of this mission.”

Sherlock blinked at his paperwork.  His trust was being released to him.  It was to be managed by Dr. Watson, but Mycroft’s name wasn’t on it anywhere.”

“All you have to do is sign the papers inside and bring them to my office.  They will take care of the rest.”

“Deflection doesn’t answer my question,” Sherlock stated, his eyes flicking to John before turning back to his brother.

“I need you to do two things for me.  First, vet Gregory’s next partner better than you vetted me.”

“I told him all about you.  How dangerous you are,” Sherlock stated defensively.

“Sherlock!” John snapped, causing the other man to pause.  “Why do you think you needed to be vetted , Mycroft?”

“We all know that my job is to save the country from the real monsters, which would do Her harm.   But, the only way to fight a monster is with another monster.  It’s the only way to understand motive.  Why would you let someone as good as Gregory Lestrade marry a monster?“  He cleared his throat softly.  

Both of the other men shared a look of confusion.  John was outright puzzled.  “We don’t stop people from marrying those who make them happy,” he explained. 

Not wanting to give too much of himself away, Mycroft only stated, “Well, perhaps his next partner will be as good of a man as he is.  Like those princes in those ghastly fairy tales your daughter likes, Dr. Watson.  He deserves a good man.  A prince, not a monster.”

Sudden understanding came over Sherlock.  “Whatever Lestrade said, I’m certain it wasn’t an honest statement.  Something meant to hurt you.  And apparently it worked.  If I knew that calling you a monster would have sent you away, I would have done it years ago.  In fact, I’m sure I have.  Didn’t work for me.”  He sounded nearly petulant.

“Yes, well, brother dear, this is where you get your wish.  I need you to convince everyone I never existed.  Our parents should be easy enough.  Just have your homeless network rearrange the room that had been mine.  Take the pictures with me in them.  You’ll have the best graphic designers at your disposal to pull me out of every picture, every article… Eurus will be hard to convince,” he added, a bit of warning in his voice.

He turned to Sherlock.  “You always said you didn’t want me meddling in your life.  Merry Christmas, brother mine.”  His tone became wistful.

“And now, Dr. Watson, because I know you called Greg and told him to come, rest assured he won’t arrive in time.  There is some traffic between home and here.  He won’t make it through. “

Sherlock pressed his hands together and went into his thinking pose.  This was not just a lover’s quarrel.  Mycroft was so certain that Greg had ceased loving him that he was taking his broken heart into the field to get away.  He was going on a mission that he was not expected to survive… or… “You’re going to be a ghost?” he asked.  It made more sense than death, honestly.  Mycroft’s survival instinct was too strong.

A simple no was all that Mycroft gave.

“Remember when we were children, Mycroft?  And you would tell me the most fanciful stories.” There was an uneasy pinched sound to Sherlock’s voice.  “Did I ever tell you, John? Mycroft used to do the best voices.”

At the memory, Mycroft couldn’t help but blush.  God help him.

“Story time used to please me too, brother mine.  Sherlock’s laugh was infectious,” he explained to John. 

John relaxed a bit, watching the ease with which the two spoke. It may have been the most grown up, brotherly conversation that he had ever witnessed.”

“I’ll do as you ask, Mycroft. If you tell me one story before you go… with voices,” Sherlock said.  Where the hell was Greg?  Was his brother correct and not being overdramatic for once?   If so, Greg was going to regret the day he ever broke his brother’s heart.  His brother was many things.  But, he wasn’t a monster.  No matter what their parents thought.  No matter what people in other countries, or who devised malicious plans against the Queen… against England… thought.  Never before did he want to defend his brother as much as he did at this very moment.

“Tell me a story, Mycroft.” Sherlock said, determined to get to the bottom of whatever had happened between Mycroft and Lestrade.  “ Tell me the one about the prince and the monster.”

\--

_** I’m going to call you.  Put your phone immediately on mute.  Say nothing.  Get here…  JW **_

What the hell was going on?  First Anthea’s odd text and now this from John.   And Mycroft still had not gotten back to him.

“… should I survive, you’ll know about the trust…”

It was Mycroft’s voice.  Why was he talking about Rosie’s trust?  It was something that the two of them had discussed giving to John upon his retirement from medicine, or Rosie’s graduation from college, whichever came first. 

Panic shot through Greg when he heard Mycroft’s first askance of Sherlock.  What did he mean Greg’s _next_ partner?  What _next_?

Hauling himself to his feet, he jumped into his car.  He couldn’t call for a car, and he wasn’t going to wait for a cab.  This was far too important.  He put his phone on the passenger’s side seat, listening like he had dropped into some horrible radio drama. 

“Oh, God. I’m an idiot!” Greg chastised himself as he listened to Mycroft’s assessment of himself.   Of course, it all made sense.  Past fights had never gotten personal.  They fought about opinions, not tore each other down.  He hadn’t realized how thin Mycroft’s paper heart had become.   He must have been truly upset about the decision that he had to make.  And, rather than being his rock, like Mycroft was for him, Sherlock, Anthea, and scads of people across the government, he had taken away all support. 

He yelled as he got caught behind another bus, and wished he could move the traffic.  When he heard Mycroft’s statement about the traffic, he yelled again.  This was unfair.  He was about to unmute his phone, and start begging Mycroft to stay – if that was what it came to. 

He forgot, sometimes, that Mycroft did not have the relationship experience that he did.  He forgot that the man didn’t know that bad fights could happen and not mean the end of the relationship. He forgot that the man weighed and calculated each and every word, and he never said things he didn’t mean without knowing what the end result would be.   This wasn’t what he had intended at all.  A dead husband; whatever Mycroft left to him, it wouldn’t make him forget.  He could never forget.

Suddenly, he heard Sherlock say something that could only be a stalling tactic. “Tell me a story, Mycroft.  Tell me the one about the prince and the monster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is quoted from SJ Tucker's song: Not the Villain


	3. Ticks and Tocks from Broken Clocks Can't Hurt Me Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little deduction goes a long way.

Mycroft’s heart leapt at the request.

Foolish sentiment.  He cared about Sherlock and it cost him a fortune to keep up, respect at his employ, and what little was left of his dignity.   He cared about his homicidal sister, and it cost him his childhood, his parents, and nearly the life of his brother.  He cared about Gregory, and it cost him… his heart.  He hoped that after this ridiculous endeavor he would be free from the lot of them.  They could go on as though he never existed.  And if he died in the field, well then Gregory would be a wealthy man. And, if he didn’t, Gregory would be presented with the divorce decree at six month intervals.  He would be well provided for.  Mycroft’s last act of love.

But, of course there needed to be banter first.

“You’d ask me to do this to make a fool of me?” he asked, the merest hint of taunting in his voice.

Hurt and something that Mycroft couldn’t name rippled across Sherlock’s face.  It was rather like the look that he had given Mycroft the day that they had spoken of his part in _The Importance of Being Ernest_.  “Let me be a proper little brother.  I want to hear the stories of my big brother.”

Mycroft’s breath was forced out of him.  He nearly escaped to his own mind palace, but he heard a voice starting to speak in a proper narrator’s voice.  It took several sentences for him to realize that it was his own.

\--

The traffic had finally started to thin and Greg hurried along, when suddenly Mycroft’s voice changed.  The accent was American of all things.  “Once upon a time, in a town so small that it fit in a glen in the middle of Sherwood Forest, there lived a handsome prince.  The prince was good and kind and all of the people of his kingdom adored him. They would do whatever he said, and in return they had his loyalty.

“The prince was also quite neighborly, you see.  As we all know, monsters live in Sherwood Forest.  But, the prince was not afraid of the monster.  Rather, he encouraged the monster by leaving food at the edge of the forest. 

“Sometimes, the monster would just eat the food and shrink back into the shadows.  Other times he would grow bold and come into the glen.  The villagers were kind to him, but only at the insistence of the prince…”

Greg broke the phone’s connection as he parked his car and started to run down the sidewalk.  He hoped that the story was continuing, and that the door would be unlocked.  Jiggling the door knob, he was exceedingly happy to find that it was so, and he walked very quietly up the stairs.  He wanted to run, he wanted to burst in and capture Mycroft, hold onto him and never let him go.

Coming to the top of the of stairs he paused at the door.  It was closed, but he could hear Mycroft’s soft tenor telling the story on the other side of the door.

“When the monster realized that he had taken the prince’s hospitality for granted, he felt abhorred.  Unfortunately, his manners were lacking, and he did not know how to make it up to the prince.  He had hoped that the prince would forgive him, as he had so many times before.  But, the prince could not.  ‘Go!’ he said to the monster.  ‘You’re too repulsive to be in my presence any longer.’”

\--

It wasn’t Mycroft’s best story, and goodness knew he did better voice when they were children.  But, it was a children’s story based out of his own pain.  Sherlock had identified the duality of the prince as both the personable side of Mycroft and how he viewed Greg.  Therefore, when the prince rejected the monster, it had the two-fold response of simultaneously breaking Mycroft’s heart and his will. He’d never known his brother to be a coward, and if he had decided on a suicide mission, then he had truly reached the end of his ability to cope.

Repulsive.  The word struck Sherlock to the core. His brother was perfectly shaped as a linguist and academic.  While he was drawn towards linguists and international politics, he would have done just as well as a mathematician teaching in academia. Long and lithe, his brother was all sharp points an long limbs… now.  As a child, he had been chubby.  As a teenager, he had been fat.  Now, he had self-perceptions issues so severe that the man had but four mirrors in his home, outside of the mandatory ones in the bathrooms of his home.  His weight would bounce up and down five pounds, and Sherlock had always honed in on that.  But, his brother was not repulsive.  

Sherlock raised his chin ever so slightly, ready to confront Greg, if he ever came in the room.  He had heard the man come up the steps, and he was rather taken aback that the Detective Inspector had not simply burst into the room and started making demands on Mycroft. 

“I apologize that my story was so boring that you didn’t see fit to pay attention,” Mycroft stated, bringing Sherlock out of his thoughts. 

“My apologies, Mycroft.  You can come in Lestrade,” he called out.  “The door is open.”

The all heard the door knob turn and Lestrade walk into the locked door.  “That’s not funny, Sherlock.  Let me in,” Greg demanded.

“For Heaven’s sakes,” John mumbled, going to let Lestrade in. 

“Why did you call him, brother mine?” Mycroft asked, sounding both exhausted and betrayed.

“I didn’t.  John did.  He’s been listening in.  You’re slipping.  Some agent you are. You’ll never make it three months out there.”

The wounded look on Mycroft’s face was heartbreaking. 

“Shut up you daft prat,” Greg yelled at Sherlock as he came to regard Mycroft.    He saw Mycroft curl his fingers into his hands, a sure sign that he was uncomfortable in his situation. 

“Mycroft.  Don’t go.  Please.”  His thoughts were swirling around his head so fast that he couldn’t collect them all and put them in the correct order. 

“My job, as you know Gregory, is to protect the world from monsters.  If I have become what I seek to destroy, then it’s time to protect you from me,” Mycroft answered.

“I’m so sorry, Mycroft.  I didn’t mean what I said,” Greg replied.

“What did you say, _exactly_ ,” Sherlock interjected.  “Did you tell my brother that he is repulsive?”

Greg’s jaw dropped as he ran through the entire conversation.  “No, I didn’t mention his weight at all,” he responded, more thinking out loud than saying what he thought.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft closed their eyes in response.  Mycroft, trying to protect himself from the insult that had been added to the injury.  Sherlock, trying to understand how Greg could be so careless with a man he supposedly loved.

Catching the perturbed look that John was giving him, Greg gaped at the Holmes brothers.  “That’s not at all what I meant.  You’re not repulsive, Mycroft. How could I ever think you were?”  He took a step towards Mycroft, and in return Mycroft took a step back. 

“You’re correct, Mycroft, “ Sherlock said, suddenly standing up.  He walked so that he was standing between Gregory and his brother. 

“About…?”

“Better vetting needed to occur before the two of you married.  I didn’t know you could be so heartless, Lestrade.  Oblivious, certainly.  But, you always seemed to have the best intentions at heart.   Speaking of which, when did you decide that my brother’s was a toy?”

“Your brother’s heart?” Lestrade asked, clarifying what was happening. Hurting one Holmes brother was a problem, but having both of them against him was something that he never head wanted.

“Yes, despite his insistence that he does not have one, we both know that it isn’t the case.  So, at what point did you decide that his heart was worth playing with?  You know, he really is the most dangerous man that you’ll ever meet.”  Sherlock said, turning part way towards his brother.  He saw Mycroft’s jaw set and knew that there were mere minutes before he never saw his brother again… before he’d have to convince the world that the most intelligent and wise Holmes sibling had never existed.

“You say that Sherlock, but you don’t comprehend,” Greg insisted.  “This man is not dangerous,” he said, moving towards Mycroft slowly, as though he were trying to disarm a hostage situation.”

“Ah, but he is.  He’s been trained in multiple weapons, including hand to hand combat.  He’s one of the world’s most notorious negotiators, even though he’ll never get credit for such. MI6 would be lost without him.  As would I.”

His last comment cause both Mycroft and John to look at him incredulously. 

“You’re correct, Mycroft.  Vetting needed to occur.  But, we didn’t need to protect Lestrade from you. We needed to protect you from him.”

“I don’t need protection, Sherlock,” Mycroft stated, after a pause.

“You do,” the younger Holmes responded.  “You always have. But, mummy didn’t protect you from Eurus or Uncle Rudy.  Uncle Rudy didn’t protect you from the world.  MI6 gave you the coping mechanisms to control your situation, but no one protected you.  And you have always sought to protect those you love from the monsters.  You are the adult you needed.  My apologies, brother, for not seeing the obvious clues.”

“You’ll have -,” Mycroft’s voice caught.  “You’ll have Eurus.  She’ll delight in my death.   Gregory… you have often stated that you wanted to be privy to what I do. This was what I had tried to protect myself from.  I knew that your strong sense of morality would never let you stay with me if you understood the decisions I face every day.”

Sadness and regret washed over Gregory.  He had often asked Mycroft to trust him.  He knew that Mycroft would not bring work home that Greg could not see.  “I’m sorry I over-reacted,” he stated, his voice full of panic.  “Mycroft, I responded emotionally.  I know it doesn’t make sense.”

Side-stepping his brother he sighed sadly. “It made sense.  My job cannot be done by just anyone.  The decisions I have to make are for the greater good.  I shouldn’t have brought that file home.  I became complacent and it cost me.  But, it shall not cost you.  Good-bye, Detective Inspector…. Dr. Watson… “  He turned to look at Sherlock and smiled sadly.  “Good-bye, brother mine.  Enjoy being the only Holmes brother.”  His breathing was light, shallowed, stuttered.

Sherlock stood before him, uncertain of what to do.  His relationship with his brother had been strained, though less so since Sherringford.  While he had often wished the man would meddle less, he realized that it was Mycroft’s way of checking in, of caring.

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock,” his brother’s voice cut into his thoughts.

“And, yet, you about to risk your life to walk in to a mission, field work, which you hate, in order keep this man,” he said pointing at Greg, “safe.”

“Safe? Sherock, don’t be ridiculous.  This mission puts none of you at risk.  Least of all Gregory.”

“Safe from yourself.  Lestrade has called you a monster. Perhaps said that you ‘ve taken advantage of something  of his, maybe an implied trust,” Sherlock began to deduce.

“You always miss the obvious,” Mycroft interjected.  “Why do monster’s scare us, Sherlock?”

“Because they’re dangerous,” John answered, looking up at Greg.  “You _just_ figured out he’s dangerous?”

“No,” Sherlock said, realization in his voice.  “You said that you think he’s going to hurt you… why?”  He saw his brother trying to walk out the door, quietly slipping away, to be gone when they came back to the present.  He tilted his chin up and made eye contact with Greg.

Years of being around the Holmes brothers helped Greg pick up on their little gestures.  They were often the most important ones.  Turning towards the door, he blurted out, “Mycroft, don’t leave.  I trust you not to hurt me.  I feel safe with you, not the other way ‘round.”

 _Damn_.  Mycroft paused at the door, and turned.  “I can’t stop being who I am.   I will not give up my position for you.”

“I don’t want you to, dammit.” Greg bounced, the anxiety coursing through him.  “Look, the ex never fought fair.  She made things personal, and although I haven’t done it with you, it’s my go-to in order to hide the hurt.  I’m _sorry_ , Mycroft.  I am.  Please don’t leave.”

Mycroft deduced Gregory.  It wasn’t often that he had cause to do so.  But, this was literally the threshold to the next part of his life. 

At his silence, Greg continued speaking.  “There is no one I trust more.  I’m a detective inspector of New Scotland Yard, for God sake!  I can handle my own.  But, do you know how comforting it is to know that when I am with you, I am _safe_?”

“I _am_ a monster.  People fear me.  I like it,” Mycroft admitted.

A smile crept over Gregory’s face and he came towards Mycroft.  “I like it, too.  I’ll stay out of your office from now on, as long as you call off this mission… or your personal involvement.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who gave no indication one way or the other.

“All right…” he whispered.  “I have some… things to fix.  I trust you’ll all enjoy the gifts.”  Mycroft stated retreating to his waiting car.

“I trust you’re not going anywhere,” Lady Smallwood stated.

Mycroft looked aghast.  “How did you get here?”

“Let’s just say that Anthea answers to me just as much as she answers to you.”  She waited until they were on their way before continuing.  “So, field work?”

“We’ll have to find another agent.”

“Divorce?”

“I’ll have the papers destroyed.”

“You made the right decision today,” she said, speaking as a women who knew.

“I hope so, Alicia.  I truly hope so.”


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself. Much to Mycroft's horror.   
> Monster's, Inc., really is hard on someone with misophonia.

Multiple colored doors – and some multi-colored doors – shuffled across the screen with an annoying clicking sound, which caused Mycroft to keep focused on his breathing so that he would not become snappish.  It was obvious that the little girl sitting between the  couch and the telly was quite enjoying the movie. 

“Why are we watching this?” Mycroft asked the room.  He was uncomfortably sandwiched between Gregory and Sherlock, while John bustled around the kitchen making the group tea. 

Rosie squealed in delight as a honking noise emanated from the movie. 

“To show you that all monsters have jobs, and not all monsters are evil, love,” Greg said, giving Mycroft’s hand a squeeze.

“And because it’s Rosie’s favorite movie,” Sherlock said.

“I’m certain you could show her any loud bouncing creature and she would delight in it just as much,” Mycroft grumped, squinting as he watched the scream energy be captured.  _Cute premise._

“Oh I wouldn’t be so sure,” John said coming in with the tea.  “You turn that off and we’ll leave while she screams enough to light the whole house. “

Giving John a look that would cause most world leaders to reconsider his stance, he reached over and went to pour the tea.  “I’ll be mother,” he said, reaching for the teapot.

“No,” Sherlock said.  “You’ve done enough of that.  “I’ll be mother today.”  He looked over his brother and turned the volume down a few notches before beginning to pour the tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft's statement about being the villain in this tale (and the chapter titles) are influenced by SJ Tucker's song 'Not the Villain'.


End file.
